


Homeostasis

by auxanges



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Alcohol, Bathing/Washing, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Dubious Consent, Eye Trauma, First Time, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sexual Violence, Stitches, Tattoos, Underage Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:12:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times things between them changed; five times things remained the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ay first gangsta fic (flicks lights on and off)  
> nothing REALLY graphic in this chapter but it does take place in the arcangelo estate so if youre not keen on underage stuff this is probably not the chapter for you  
> tags will be added as needed, signs in italic but you knew that probably

The library shelves remain, for the most part, unused, and Wallace finds some comfort in knowing his hands are the only ones touching the books. His mind wanders briefly to other pairs of hands in the estate—larger, painful hands that wouldn’t know a book if he broke their fingers with one of the thick volumes.

There is a smaller pair of hands, too: steady on the grip of a sword Wallace doesn’t understand the purpose of (everyone has guns, after all, and the more cynical part of him still believes the boy’s assignment to him is some kind of joke), hesitant when they slowly work their way through signs together. Wallace has seen them shake, too, on days Nicolas’ eyes lose focus and he leaves early with an awkward, apologetic bow.

Here, between bookshelves and away from prying eyes, Wallace familiarizes himself with his own hands. He’s thirteen and lonely: it’s an inevitable mixture. Besides, he’s safer in the library than his own room, a sort of irony not lost on him even as Wallace unzips his pants behind the encyclopedia shelf.

Wallace’s hands are uncertain and clumsy; he can’t relax. Weary eyes squint to peek between books, just to be safe.

Someone’s there.

“Shit—” Wallace fumbles with his zipper, turning away and glaring over his shoulder.

Nicolas stares back, expressionless as ever.

“Dammit, Nic…” his pants are uncomfortably tight, and Wallace is suddenly very much aware of how bad it could have been if it had been anyone else but the boy, walking in on him half-hard and alone. “You shouldn’t have…I mean you don’t, uh. Shouldn’t you be watching the door?” He puts on his best scolding face.

Nicolas raises an eyebrow and looks down, then back up at Wallace.

Well. At least he isn’t being a dick about it. “None of your business,” Wallace mutters.

No reply—Nic is just standing there with that dumbass look on his face.

Then his hands move. Slowly, and Wallace isn’t sure if it’s struggles with the signs or a sense of hesitation. The boy is deaf, not stupid, and sometimes he seems to be the only one who realizes that.

_Help?_

Now Wallace is the one staring. “You’re joking, right?”

Nicolas shrugs, repeats the sign again. Still no change in expression.

“You can’t—I mean, you shouldn’t—” Wallace is reeling, scrambling for words he usually has, always has. “It’s not your _job_ , Nic.”

_You’re my job._

There’s no hesitation, this time: no ulterior motive, either—Nicolas is relaxed, his hands palm up at his sides in an unusual display of innocence.

He’s a mercenary, Wallace. He kills people. He’s a boy paid to kill people with a huge fucking sword. And you want his hands on you?

Wallace sighs. “Fine. But not a word, or I swear…”

_Who would I tell?_

Nicolas crouches – it’s always looked uncomfortable, the way he squats down to the floor for hours on end, but he’s never complained – and carefully puts a hand on Wallace’s side, his eyes gauging his expression. Wallace says nothing, but sucks in a breath when the boy’s hand wanders lower.

It feels like he’s never done this in his life (which, admittedly, is probably the case), but Wallace almost doesn’t care, because Nic’s hands are so…different. His fingertips are soft, his knuckles bruised blue and purple. When his hand slides into his boxers, Wallace can’t help but let out a startled gasp; his hands are _not warm_ , but Nicolas doesn’t flinch or ask questions.

They’re facing one another, side by side so Wallace is looking over Nic’s shoulder, staring at the C shelf of encyclopaedias (Captain>Celebrer, City>Command, Control>Creature). Nic’s hand finds its own rhythm, and he says nothing even as Wallace’s breathing grows laboured. The other hand is folded around his katana, the knuckles pink and white under the bruises.

What a fucking sight they must be.

Wallace is young, and only human (more irony, but not irony he feels comfortable voicing), and it doesn’t take him long to climax, messy and embarrassed with his head in the crook of a thin shoulder. His teeth cut into his lip when he bites it to keep from crying out, but it doesn’t make much of a difference: Nicolas and the books both know how to keep a secret.

Nic pulls back his hand and wipes it on his pants. There’s a moment of silence before he taps Wallace on the shoulder. _Should I watch the door?_

Wallace straightens, leaning his head instead back against the bookshelf. “Yeah, you probably should.”

He closes his eyes and listens to the fading shuffle of Nic’s boots against the marble floor. If they’re found out, Wallace thinks, the repercussions would be awful. More than awful—he can’t begin to imagine what that would mean for him. For the other boy, standing in the massive library doorway with his fate already sealed and branded on the back of his neck.

Best not to dwell on it. All he would like to do is forget this ever happened; it’s better for the both of them.

But Wallace is plagued with an excellent memory, and his memory keeps him company in the warm library, with his secrets and his books and a second cold pair of hands, wrapped around a sword.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nic’s upper back is interlaced with shadows. They run along the top of his shoulder blades and gather over muscle, woven ink on a pale, scarred canvas. The skin around it is an angry red; blood in veins so similar to his, except where it really matters.

Worick is eighteen and on his stomach, on a couch in a stranger’s basement. Not entirely a new situation, he supposes, but the circumstances are a little different than what he’s used to. After all, his line of work doesn’t usually involve ink and buzzing needles along his upper back.

He’s not getting paid enough for this.

(He’s not getting paid at all, actually— _he’s_ the one paying some shady artist for a tattoo he doesn’t really want to get. He’ll grow to like it, Worick thinks, he’ll get used to it, just like he gets used to everything else.)

Beside the couch, Nicolas is sitting on the floor, watching the man’s hands move—contact, wipe, contact again. Worick risks turning his head to fix his eye on him: Nic is weary, but low on energy. “No drugs,” the guy had told them when they’d approached him the day before, “thins the blood. And no drinks either, pretty boy. Keep your Tag in line or the price triples.”

Worick rolls his eyes at the memory, but at least this artist was willing to work on a Twilight in the first place. It’s hard to pick your battles in a place like this, but he likes to think Nic and him are doing an okay job at it.

“You’re quiet, kiddo. Not passed out on me, are ya?”

The needle pushes over his shoulder blade, and Worick flashes a tight smile at the couch. The cushion has a stain on it. “I’ve had worse,” he replies, “though it wouldn’t kill to get some music in here. A little something to liven up this place? I feel like a corpse.”

Nicolas lets out a puff of air that Worick takes to be a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re almost done. Then it’s your Tag’s turn.”

‘Almost done’ turns out to be the longest hour of Worick’s life—and he’s had some pretty unsavoury hours. It’s like nails scratching at his back, and not in the fun way girls at work sometimes do it. By the time the artist finally puts away the needle and peels off his gloves, Worick’s skin is on fire.

Something cool is pressed against his shoulders. “Keep it dry for a few days. Bandages come off in an hour or two.”

Worick half-slides, half-tumbles off the couch, grinning at Nic and hoping the discomfort doesn’t show in the dim incandescent glow of the bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Nicolas leans back. _Does it hurt?_

“Doesn’t tickle.” Worick’s hair is pricking the skin against the top of his bandage: he fumbles for an elastic to tie it up. Fuck, he needs a smoke.

The rubbery snap of a fresh pair of gloves makes Worick look up, and Nic follows his gaze.

“Okay, Tag, you’re next.”

*

Nicolas is seventeen and shirtless, defenseless and caged in some stranger’s basement.

His system is sluggish, unresponsive; it makes him more on edge but unable to act on it. Nic hates it, and would hate Worick for putting him through this, if he had the energy. But he’s at the mercy of the man with the ink and needle, and so he clenches his teeth and stares daggers at his contract holder.

Nic can feel every vibration, every minute up-and-down stab of the needle. He’s only recently gotten used to the numbness that accompanies his jobs; the clear-headed high free of annoying obstacles like pain and fatigue. Having them back now seems like a waste of his time and an avoidable nuisance.

Worick, to his credit, seems to pick up on this relatively quickly. “You doing okay?”

“ **FinE.** ” Nicolas looks away, effectively ending the short exchange. The last thing he needs is pity for something he should be able to take. The itch of his shoulders tells him the artist is moving to the shading—the slow burn spreads along his back like blades, cutting just deep enough for all of Nic’s nerves to tense, but not enough for him to bolt.

Hell, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t run. The only one who could get them out of here was the boy leaning back on his hands, his face twisted in uneasiness. And if there’s one thing Worick will do, it’s see things through.

He’s stuck here.

A nerve in his back begs for Celebrer, and the resulting spasm in Nic’s shoulder almost runs ink down his side. The needle digs harder and Nicolas sets his jaw: weakness, especially weakness in front of a stranger and Worick, is not a viable option for him.

Worick’s brow is furrowed, but Nicolas can’t detect whatever comment he’s making to the artist. His shoulders are hot. He’s tired. He’s tired. He’s tired.

He’s—

A tap against his arm makes him jerk up, and Nicolas glowers at the artist. The guy raises his hands in mock surrender. “You’re all done. Pay me what you owe me and don’t come again.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Nic sees Worick fish an impressive wad of bills from his pocket, thumbing them lazily. His lips are moving as if around an invisible cigarette, and Nicolas wonders how many late nights it took to pay off these stupid tattoos.

“C’mon, Nic. Let’s blow this shithole.”

He stands and runs a hand over his face, as if to erase the fatigue setting in his bones. It’s going to be a long night.

*

The light in the single room they’ve been renting isn’t much better than the basement, but Worick sits cross-legged on the floor while Nic pulls away the bandages. The cold air provides little comfort against the itch at his shoulders.

“So?” Worick asks, when Nicolas rounds him to scrap the gauze. “How does it look?”

Nic shrugs, then winces. _Like a tattoo._

Worick sticks out his bottom lip in a pout. “Okay, wiseass. Let’s see yours.”

Nicolas sits still when Worick peels off the bandage, his head only half-turned to see him.

“Whoa.”

Nic’s upper back is interlaced with shadows. They run along the top of his shoulder blades and gather over muscle, woven ink on a pale, scarred canvas. The skin around the tattoo is an angry red; blood in veins so similar to his, except where it really matters.

Worick has seen his share of bodies at work, but Nic’s is not the same. Then again, the killing-machine percentage of his clientele isn’t exactly high, either.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Worick is reaching a hand out, and he feels Nic stiffen when his fingers connect with the sensitive skin. He almost ducks, certain of a defensive reflex aimed at him, but even from behind Worick can tell Nic is too drained to do anything but sit, and let him trail his fingers lightly over the tattoo.

It’s probably a bad idea to do that, but Worick has had worse ideas in his short life, and what’s one more, really? Away from the beady, brooding eyes of the city below them, no one can reprimand a bad idea or two.

And it doesn’t take long for Nic to relax: Worick can feel it, the way the muscles under the fresh ink unknot under his hands. His head dips forward the slightest bit, and Worick hears the soft clinking of Nic’s tags. The thought of cold metal is enough to renew the itch on his back, and another, older itch under his patch. He focuses instead on Nicolas.

His thumb trails over the younger boy’s spine, over the patterns etched into him. Worick’s hand moves on its own again, then, his fingers grazing the ink where they form the first letter of his name.

The tattoo moves with Nic when he shifts again, looking back again at Worick out of the corner of one eye. “ **WHat…?** ”

Worick starts. “Eh? Nothin’. Does it bug you? I can pull away.” But he doesn’t.

Nic holds his gaze for a beat, before shaking his head once, twice, and slowly turning back.

Worick spells the rest of his name against his back and pretends not to feel Nicolas shiver when the nail of his pinky drags up his spine to sign the letter “I.”

They sit in silence, until Nic slumps a little further forward and Worick moves him into a more comfortable sleeping position, with a laugh Nicolas can’t hear and his morning dosage tucked into his hand.

Worick's still asleep when the Sun rises, and neither him nor the city’s watchful eyes can see the slow, deliberate letters left against his flushed skin by calloused hands.

…O…L…A…S.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost twice as long as the first one ha  
> thank you for the kudos/bookmarks and the kind words!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But tonight is different. Tonight, he wants a blank mind, and familiarity, and if this is the only way to silence his skin, so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> not a lot of dialogue in this one, sorry if thats your thing

It’s not out of the ordinary for Nicolas to be awake when he stumbles in from work, but Worick is always surprised nonetheless. He’s tried telling him to go to sleep – Worick’s schedule turns on a dime, and they keep far too busy to both stay up into the hours of dawn – but as usual, Nic seldom listens.

Worick shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it towards the chair: he misses and it falls to the floor. The window behind Nicolas is cracked open, and the cool air makes his skin tingle everywhere strangers have touched it. Worick is far from sober – everyone loves buying him drinks, for some reason, and he can never refuse such generosity – but he can still call to mind the faces that match the hands, the marks, the scratches on his skin. They come with the job description, and he keeps them well hidden under pressed shirts and loose hair that’s recently grown past his shoulders.

On nights like this, the marks are audible; ringing between his ears, whispers of clients slithering along his arms and across the floor, and Worick is almost glad Nic can’t hear a damn thing. He leans against the wall and waits for his eye to adjust to the light of the room, a far cry from work’s colourful neon fixtures that had begun spinning after his fifth drink of the night.

(It may have taken five drinks for the room to spin, but it had only taken two for Worick to find a solution of sorts to the whispers, and by the time he’d finished his third drink he had convinced himself it’d be fine. Of course, drinks four through seven probably helped a little.)

He must be making a face, sorting through memories hazy with alcohol, because Nicolas knocks on the wall beside him to get his attention. Worick looks up and grins. “Waited for me again, eh? Thanks, Mom.”

 _Not tired._ Nicolas looks him up and down: Worick can feel his eyes resting on every bruise, even the ones concealed under his clothes.

“Yeah? Makes two of us, then.” Worick kicks off his shoes, one arm stretched for balance against nothing in particular. “Hey…I could use a favour.”

Nic raises an eyebrow, but waits for him to continue.

Worick turns, spreading both his hands. “Hit me.”

Nicolas blinks. _How drunk are you?_

“Come onnnn, it doesn’t even have to be hard!” Worick’s skin is already begging for touch of someone he knows, but Nic doesn’t have to know that, not yet. “You chicken? Big scary rogue too much of a pansy to hit his—”

“ **nO.** ”

Nic’s eyes are narrowed, suspicious: a reaction Worick expected. It’s this expectation that propels his feet forward, until he’s in front of the other boy, still leaning against the windowsill. Nicolas has grown, and his arms definitely aren’t as scrawny as they were six years ago, but Worick still has some height over him.

This might take some work. “Why not?” Worick presses.

Nicolas hesitates before raising three fingers.

Worick rolls his eyes. “Oh, no. Don’t pull that bullshit on me, you and I both know you don’t care for crap like _rules_.” When Nicolas doesn’t reply – it must have been the only excuse he could think of – Worick leans forward. “But you care about orders, dontcha?”

Nic stiffens.

On any other night, Worick would feel bad: it’s a card he dislikes playing. But tonight is different. Tonight, he wants a blank mind, and familiarity, and if this is the only way to silence his skin, so be it.

“’s not a suggestion, Nic. Touch me. I don’t care if you’re mad. Haha, might make it easier, right?” Worick is rambling, not even sure if Nicolas is paying attention.

 _I’m not mad. Annoyed, maybe._ Nicolas straightens. _You’re drunk, and I’m not doing this._ _I’m going to bed._

Worick heaves a defeated sigh. “Fine.” He shoves his hand in his pocket and lowers his gaze to the floor. “How ‘bout a goodnight kiss, then?”

Before Nic has a chance to decipher what’s been said, Worick lunges forward and presses his mouth to the other boy’s; one hand moves to the small of his back, and he’s frozen in place when Worick injects the Upper into Nic’s thigh.

(Desperate times call for desperate measures, and if this isn’t desperate, then it’s close enough for a drunken boy with an emergency dosage that’s been weighing his pocket down all night.)

The capsule clatters to the floor, and Worick feels Nicolas try to push away. His hands move to his collar, tugging to keep him in close. Nicolas tastes like shitty coffee, and when Worick parts his lips with his tongue, he finds the familiar coppery taste of blood.

His eye socket pulses in protest, but this is something he _knows_ , and there isn’t turning back, especially not with a fast-acting injection. Maybe he should have—

He’s slammed into something hard. The wall? Worick is more gone than he thought—he doesn’t remember being turned around. And he definitely doesn’t remember Nicolas ever looking at him like this.

Nic’s eyes are dark, the Celebrer already kicking in and sharpening his gaze into something almost…predatory. It’s probably a little sad that it goes straight to Worick’s dick, but he’s far, far past caring, not when a familiar and dangerous smile materializes on Nic’s face, with teeth that look ready to rip out his throat but content themselves with biting his lip. Worick feels the sting of blood being drawn.

“ **sHOulDn’T hAve DOne tHAt**.”

Then Nic’s mouth is on his skin—graceless, rough and _exactly_ what Worick’s been looking for. He finds the night’s bruises easily, renews them as his own with little effort. Nicolas is so close, so _close_ to him that it’s almost painful: his are the only hands Worick wants to feel against his burning skin. He reaches to fumble with his shirt buttons.

Nicolas’ hand fists in his hair and yanks his head backwards. It hits the wall with a dull thud and a cry escapes Worick’s lips. Nic’s other hand snakes up his shirt, across his abs and along his side, and a shiver runs through him. His thumb brushes over his nipple and Worick can’t help but moan, and he takes it back, he wishes Nicolas could hear this.

But then again, he’s sure he’s not imagining the hardness pressing against his leg.

Worick’s hands move again, not caring about Nic’s implied warning—caring is the last thing he wants to do, not with a featherlight head and heat already pooling in the pit of his stomach. Only this time, they reach for the tags around the other boy’s neck, pulling hard and snapping the chain.

Nicolas grips his shoulders with force Worick _should_ have known he possesses, whirling him around and shoving him hard. Worick stumbles backwards and trips over something; the couch? Nic’s aim is better than his. He lands on his back and Nicolas is already right there, above him with the telltale grin of victory and _God_ , if this isn’t hotter than Worick had anticipated.

He’s still holding Nic’s tags in one hand, the cold metal sticking to his palm. He lets them drop to the floor and raises his hands once more, finding a tuft of hair long enough to pull Nicolas closer.

That’s when he remembers the whole reflex thing.

Nic’s fist swings out of nowhere and connects with Worick’s jaw: if he hadn’t been lying down, the impact would have snapped his head back. But Worick can hold his own, or at least ignore the stars that dance in front of his already swimming vision.

He laughs, twisting under Nicolas. “I knew it. I knew you’d do it.”

Nic doesn’t reply. He isn’t watching him, but Worick hears a sound he knows all too well: the unbuckling of a belt.

“Oh my god. Oh my _god_ , Nic, please…”

Pride means nothing, at this point—Worick’s pants are strained and already wet with precome, and if the look on Nic’s face is anything to go by, he knows exactly what Worick wants.

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when his own pants come off, or how Nicolas knew about the lube in his other pocket (it’s the nicest, and he can’t help bringing extra home from work every now and then). But Nic’s fingers are suddenly inside him and _fuck_ , it’s worth a night of strangers, hundreds of nights of strangers.

It’s been a long night, and Nicolas isn’t the first one in him; it doesn’t take long before his fingers are replaced by what Worick suddenly realizes he really wants—what he needs.

There’s no gentleness to it, far from that, but it’s not what Worick signed up for when he drugged him up. It’s the _rawness_ of it all, the way Nicolas rocks against him in earnest, a one-track mind fixed on a target. This target is all too willing, his pulse roaring in his ears and finally, mercifully drowning out the night’s whispers; his hair in disarray; his patch, broken and discarded somewhere with their pants and whatever barriers the pair had entered the room with tonight.

Nicolas shoves his legs higher, until Worick’s ass lifts off the couch with every thrust. Nic's fingers dig into his hips, sending sharp shocks of pain through his muddled thought process.

“Christ. Nic…!”

Of course he can’t hear him, but that’s never stopped Worick before, especially not when his back arches off the couch, every nerve in his body begging for release only Nicolas can give. His chest is against Nic’s, and Worick wonders if he can feel the vibrations of his voice; feel how badly he needs this, how _good_ it feels to have the stranger fucked out of him.

He owns Nicolas, but Nicolas has a hold on him, and when Worick comes on his chest with a hoarse cry, he swears he sees the same sharp grin of a soldier who knows he’s won.

Nicolas isn’t loud, but he’s not quiet, either: he groans when he buries himself in Worick, his muscles tight and shaking (from the Celebrer or something else, Worick can’t tell). Nic’s voice is muffled by Worick’s neck when he climaxes, his breath hot against his skin and their bodies pressed together.

This close to him, Worick can feel the accelerated hammering of Nic’s pulse, the controlled bursts of his breathing: he thinks if he listens hard enough, he could hear the singing of Celebrer in his veins. Giveaways that they are not the same.

Tonight, though, they’re similar enough.

When Nicolas withdraws, Worick can still feel his hands, his teeth, an affirmation of sorts that this wasn’t a dream or a hallucination. He takes one, two deep breaths, reaching for his pants. “You need a Downer,” he says, rubbing his jaw. It’s going to bruise tomorrow: Big Mama might not like it, but he can blame someone else.

Nic is sprawled on the end of the couch, his eyes roving across the room. Coming off the high is going to suck, probably, but he doesn’t seem too irritated by it.

Worick finds the pills and tosses him the bottle. Nic catches it expertly and lazily signs his gratitude.

“Yeah,” Worick murmurs. “Right back at ya.”

Nicolas is passed out soon as the pills take effect; almost a blessing in disguise. Worick manages to wait until he’s asleep (on his side on the floor, but he’ll let it slide for tonight) before shuffling into his room and collapsing into bed.

Behind closed eyes, the image of Nic brings the relief of clarity that will be worth the inevitable hangover in the morning.

Worick owns Nicolas, but sometimes it really does feel like the other way around.

When Nicolas wakes the next morning, still sluggish from the unplanned dosage lingering in his system, he realizes his tags are missing. He doesn’t bother to look behind the closed door, where a hand is wrapped around them, the thumb tracing the engraved lettering even in sleep.

Nicolas sighs and stretches, and gets up to make his owner some coffee.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t feel anything, do you? All those painful memories—why am I the one who ended up with them and not you?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eye trauma mention in this chapter. actually a few things mention in this chapter its pretty angsty. no i wont apologize

On his route, Worick passes seven newspapers. He scans the headlines as he walks; a purposeful yet slowed pace, as if he doesn’t actually want to reach his destination. As if this is something he can avoid.

But when Worick had woken this morning with a splitting headache, he’d already known this would be unavoidable. And when Nicolas had volunteered to pick him up a pack of smokes and some painkillers after his job, and Worick’s empty eye socket had screamed at the sight of his hands, he’d known this was for his own sake.

Still a selfish boy, he supposes.

The redhead with freckles is reading the classified ads. The bald guy from the petrol shop is frowning at the Celebrer market. The blonde is looking at an article on a ten-year cold case. The brunette with her hair in braids is reading the same article. So is the bartender with the ponytail and glasses. So is the off-duty cop.

Worick steps on the last crumpled newspaper and quickens his pace. It’s been a couple hours: Nicolas should be wrapped up.

He shimmies up a ladder to the second-floor rooftop. Nic is sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of the roof, but stands when he looks over and sees Worick. There’s blood on his shirt – a quick onceover tells Worick it’s probably not his – but his tags are almost meticulously clean.

This is a lie, of course. Nothing about Nicolas is clean.

Nic cocks his head. _You have a funny look on. Still have that headache?_

“Nicolas.” Worick hears his voice from far away. “Do you know what today is?”

He thinks a moment, then scratches his head and shrugs. _Tuesday?_

Worick’s fuse is shorter than usual, and whatever Uppers Nicolas took before the job are clearly still in his system. He runs a hand over his face: his empty socket throbs in time with his heart. “Do you…do you ever think about it?”

Nicolas’ hands move up, then still, retracting slightly towards his chest. _Think about what?_

It’s a defensive stance.

 “No.” Worick shakes his head. “No, of course you don’t. Nothing else keeps you up at night, so why should this? It was just another job, right?”

Nicolas looks confused, like he’s trying to figure out if Worick is yelling. Worick ignores him. “You don’t feel anything, do you? All those _painful memories_ —” he signs along with his own breaking voice, ignoring the lancing pain it brings behind his patch to recall his own threat “—why am _I_ the one who ended up with them and not you?!”

 **“—‘riCk—** ”

“Shut up!”

(It’s sad, really, how easy it is for Worick to draw his gun without a second thought, but it’s almost sadder how Nicolas doesn’t move an inch until the drugged bullet hits him in the shoulder.)

Worick’s arm is shaking, but he doesn’t lower the gun, not now: not when Nicolas is still holding his stare, as if daring him to look away, as if his shoulder isn’t laced through with bronze and the Downer isn’t already turning his blood to molasses.

“Do you feel something now?”

If his eye hadn’t already been fucking gouged out, Worick would do it himself—another pain to add to his ever-growing tally. If this was some kind of gruesome competition, he’d be winning. The thought makes him laugh, high and brittle and broken, like a wine bottle against a wall.

“Is this what I have to do to get something out of you, Nic? Is that enough for you?” Another shot; Worick’s vision is blurring from pain, and it angles to the right and catches Nicolas in the side. “How about now?”

Nicolas sways in place like some weakened tree, rooted in place by a covenant with the very forces of nature pushing it to its limits. Two dimming eyes are still fixed on one.

“Nothing.” Worick cocks the gun a third time. “No resentment? No guilt? There’s only one way to get at you, isn’t there?”

No reply. Nicolas’ jaw is working, as if testing a word before it spills clumsily from his lips.

“Tell me it’s not just me, Nic!”

But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches the barrel of the gun expectantly; the tease of Worick’s index on the trigger.

“For fuck’s sake.” Worick brings up a second hand to steady the gun. “I’ll make sure you remember this, Nicolas. Oh, and one more thing.” His face twists, not quite an apology, not quite a confession. “This one isn’t a Downer.”

Worick fires.

And suddenly Nicolas is twelve again, the same off-kilter smile he’d worn on that rainy day in West Gate.

Worick watches him topple backwards off the roof, into the gaping maw of the street below.

*

If he were a betting man, Worick would wager that Theo is not too keen on the whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing. But when he opens the clinic door to Worick carrying a Twilight unconscious and bleeding in his arms, the doctor merely sticks an unlit cigarette in his mouth and waves him in.

(It had caught Worick by surprise, how small Nic still is—he’s seen him move, run and jump and slash faster than the eye can keep up with, but when he’d climbed off the roof and scooped him up before a crowd could begin to form, it was almost like picking up a child instead of a twenty-two year old.)

He’s halfway through his third smoke when the curtain draws back with a squeak. Theo wipes his gloves on his lab coat. “I need a hand.”

Worick follows him wordlessly.

Nicolas is a ghost, a spectre of Worick’s past captured and frozen like a photograph in a hospital bed. Sweat clings to his hair and skin; his shirt’s been cut away and his thin body is a loom of wounds old and new.

Theo points with his three fingers to a tray holding a bag and two bloodied shell casings. “Can you string up one of those? This bullet is a bitch to remove. A few of his ribs are broken from the fall, they’re getting in the way.”

Ah, fuck.

Theo appears to sense Worick’s unease. “Relax. Recovery rates for his kind are higher than what you’re probably used to. Oh—here it is.”

A muted groan permeates the antiseptic-filled air, and Nicolas stirs the slightest bit. Worick’s hand shoots out to still him, a knee-jerk reaction at this point. “Did you give him anything?”

“Hm?” Theo looks surprised, as if the thought of painkillers had completely passed him by. “No, he’s hopped up on too many Downers. It’s kinda late now, but if you really want—”

“No.” Worick pulls his hand back from Nic's shoulder and focuses on the IV drip. “No, leave him.”

Theo whistles lowly, but remains silent as he drops the last shell into the tray with a metallic clang. “His ribs will set, but I’ll stitch him up.” He produces needle and thread without waiting for Worick to respond—not that Worick would: he’s watching the grimace painted on Nic’s face, feverish movement under the lids of his sunken eyes.

“So what’d he do?”

Worick looks up. “Excuse me?”

Theo’s exchanged his cigarette for another needle, and it muffles his words in a much different way than Nic’s own diction. “You shot him off a building. He must have done something to piss you off. So what was it? Lashed out on his own? Attacked a Normal? Banged your sister?”

“No.” Worick looks back at Nicolas, at the IV in his forearm. His eye pulses dimly, as if reminding him why he did what he did. “No, he...he did exactly what I asked him to.”

Theo’s eyebrows shoot up, but he says nothing further. For a long, long moment the only sounds in the clinic are the dripping of Nic’s saline and the sighs of Worick’s cigarette. When Theo puts his gear away and pulls off his gloves, Worick is almost asleep. He gives himself a shake. “What do I owe you?”

“Tell you what. I’ll start you a tab. I’m sure I’ll be seeing lots of you.” Theo ducks out, probably for another cigarette, and Worick is alone with the mess he’s made.

Nicolas has Arcangelo blood on his hands, but somehow, when it’s the other way around, it seems so different. Worick traces one finger over the stitches in Nic’s side, where the third bullet pierced. He’s done his research: he knows where to fire for more pain, less damage. Nicolas is far more valuable alive than dead, after all, for more reasons than Worick cares to count.

“I hope you felt it,” he murmurs; his voice is carried off with the curling plumes of cigarette smoke. “I hope you felt everything. I hope somewhere, maybe here—” he digs a thumbnail into Nic’s side and is rewarded with a whimper “—maybe you have the capacity for remorse.”

But even as he says it, Worick already knows the truth. He also knows he’s gained nothing from this: what closure is there from revenge without an admission of guilt, of wrongdoing? There is no wrong to right, after all. It was all loyalty. Nicolas is loyal to a fault—Worick’s fault.

It’s Worick’s fault, and he’s back at the start.

" **w...OricK**."

Nic stirs once more, lifting a thousand-pound arm to tug on Worick’s sleeve. His signs are slow, spastic, but Worick almost doesn't have to look at them to understand.

_Again. I’d…do it again._

Worick doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t have to say anything: Nicolas is out again, the stitches framing his tags against his chest like some sort of broken halo. A puzzle of flesh and string and a sense of the world that Worick, with his razor-sharp memory and his artificial vision, will never see.

Nic’s hand stills on his sleeve, and Worick doesn’t move it. And when Nic wakes again twelve hours later and Worick checks his stitches and bandages, neither of them mention what day it is.

Outside, rain begins to fall on yesterday’s newspaper, and the ink runs into the streets with the rest of the city’s truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all again for the feedback!! it really means a lot!  
> if you ever wanna check me out or send prompts feel free! [tumblr](http://quailboyfriends.tumblr.com)


	5. 4.I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolas doesn’t pretend at being human, and the proof of it is written in his own blood and his shortcomings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> decided to do a nic POV followup of the previous chapter in lieu of an interlude

Nicolas wakes to darkness and the weight of his transgressions in his bones.

He hates Downers, the way they make time slow to a crawl and every nerve ending in his body flare at the slightest brush; how the drug he depends on to live leaves him even more vulnerable than before. His limbs are made of lead, his head and chest full of heavy stones.

And recollection. Nic hates Downers even more for leaving him with memory.

The fall wasn’t the worst part, not the cracking of his ribs before he blacked out. Not even the gunshot: Nicolas can handle pain. It’s irritating and prevents him from doing what he’s supposed to, but it passes. No, what really gets to him, what surrounds him in the dark beyond the bed he doesn’t recognize is the knowledge that he’s failed.

Nicolas has no qualms about killing, never did and never will. He has been bred as a means to an end; the execution to an order. So why was this execution any different? Why has the order he’d followed so closely turned against him and broken his body?

Every inhale tugs at his fresh stitches, and Nicolas grits his teeth in frustration. He’s disappointed the only person he’s not supposed to disappoint. Whatever he’s done to drive Worick to this is something he can’t undo—something Nic wouldn’t undo, even if he could.

And that’s perhaps the worst part of all: the fact that, if given the chance, Nicolas wouldn’t change a damn thing.

Nicolas doesn’t pretend at being human, and the proof of it is written in his own blood and his shortcomings.

His sight is dulled by the Downers, but his eyes adjust to the darkness enough to spot the familiar silhouette beside him. Nicolas isn’t sure how long Worick has been there—he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for what seems like years, but with the amount of Celebrer in his system Nic’s internal clock is not a trustworthy thing.

They can’t communicate like this, in the dark; Nicolas has no way of knowing if Worick is saying anything, not until a hand ghosts over his own and folds Nic’s fingers into the sign for an apology on Worick’s behalf.

(Every part of him is malleable, to be shaped to his contract holder’s will.)

Nicolas doesn’t want an apology. Words are tedious to him and he doesn’t waste them when he doesn’t have to, so why should Worick waste words on him in return? He wants to tell him not to be sorry, because Nicolas isn’t. He wants to tell him that he isn’t someone to waste words on: Nicolas has drugs in his system where Normals have remorse, bullet holes where compassion should be.

Nicolas doesn’t pretend to be human, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t sometimes wonder what it would be like.

He forces his eyes upward to fix on Worick, or where he imagines Worick to be in the darkness. The hand over his gives a thin squeeze, and trails along Nic’s forearm to his side. Worick’s hands are warm and free of ill intent, two things that Nicolas’ own hands forever seem to be lacking.

Worick says something, or at least Nicolas thinks he does, because he’s leaning forward enough for Nic to feel the hum of his voice through Worick’s body to his own hopped-up nervous system. It tickles, but not unpleasantly, and whatever Worick is saying must not be important enough to repeat because his lips are suddenly on Nic’s.

It’s a far cry from what took place only hours ago.

There’s no harshness to the kiss: any animosity Worick had been harboring was gone, along with the bullets he’d shot him with. It’s a soft, curious thing, a practiced kiss from a practiced mouth.

Worick tastes like cheap cigarettes and ten years of life and purpose.

Nicolas wishes he could pull himself up, prevent further disappointment (even on a smaller scale), but the Downer tugs at his body like chains. Worick doesn’t seem to care—Nic feels the sigh of the mattress beneath him as a second body shifts onto the bed and Worick deepens the kiss.

Maybe it should bother him, that Worick does this for a living, that this sudden intimacy is more than likely a shock reaction to the day’s events. But it’s so much _easier_ to just accept it, unresisting to Worick’s wandering hands across his chest and over gauze and the raised skin of his stitches.

Nic wonders if Worick really knows the extent to which the Downers amplify his sensitivity, or if he’s really just that good—soft, teasing fingers know just where to go, where to touch Nicolas to make his breath hitch in a way he knows Worick will feel against his lips. And of course it will encourage him: Worick is a natural tease, a fact Nicolas knows well merely from the years they’ve spent surviving off his unclean hands and Worick’s boyish charm.

He reaches up with heavy, shaky arms, looping them around Worick’s neck; his hair feels nice on Nic’s skin. It’s not much, but it’s all he has to offer to someone who’s giving him more than he deserves.

It should be unsurprising, when Worick’s hands wander lower and warmth spreads through his legs, but Nicolas is still caught off guard. He probably made some kind of sound, because he can feel Worick laugh against his skin, and his hands (his fucking _talented_ hands) resume their ministrations without pause.

All Nicolas can do is keep him close, locked in an awkward embrace with Worick’s loose hair tickling his bare skin. He’s glad it’s dark, so Worick doesn’t see it when his eyes lose focus and close as he rocks weakly against his hand.

(It doesn’t occur to him that maybe, just maybe Worick was wishing for a light, for another face to add to the memories he doesn’t mind recalling.)

Nicolas already feels the tug of sleep at his eyelids, and he looks to the shadow once more. Worick raises a hand, but only to lace its fingers between Nic’s: warm on cold, unmarred on calloused. The toned, clothed chest of a contract holder and the bare, worn one of his Tag, fitted to him almost seamlessly. Darkness reveals no imperfections, and silence dutifully maintains the illusion.

He lets himself succumb to the Downers for what feels like the thousandth time. Sleep is the last thing he wants, but it’s what Worick seems to want for him now, with his free hand pushing back his hair before drawing away.

If Worick says anything else, it catches in the air, among the smell of blood and cigarettes. Nicolas doesn’t see him fall asleep on the floor, beside the bed, their hands still linked in some curious twist of fate. Another illusion, one neither of them sees, to remain tucked away with memories neither of them care much to recall.

Morning brings a broken spell, drained away like the remnants of Celebre in Nic’s blood, the only proof of whatever has passed as closure between them a tangle of fingers between sleeping figures waiting to be thrown back into their rightful places.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, Wallace has to wrestle him into the tub: Nicolas is like a cat, wriggling in the taller boy’s grip and clutching at the walls like he’s never touched a drop of water in his life. Wallace almost thinks it’s the case, half the time—when Nic looks more like he’s been tossed out of bed into his boots and too-big sword than prepped for tasks.

“That was probably the worst job ever.”

Worick’s cigarette is lit before he finishes setting foot into their apartment. Nicolas trails behind, glancing habitually over his shoulder before shutting the door behind him. His fingers leave bloody marks on the knob and he wipes it with his sleeve.

“Okay, maybe not the worst job,” Worick continues, pulling off his shoes, “but at _least_ the third or fourth worst. It was pretty up there.”

Nic’s sword is leaning against the wall, and its owner does the same, stretching. _Quit exaggerating._

“I am not!” Worick whines. “There were like…what, seven guys, eight? Plus the three on the roof, the rogue in the alley…”

_I didn’t keep count._

“You never keep count. You shoot first and ask questions never.”

Nicolas grins. _I don’t shoot, either._

Worick rolls his eyes. “Whatever. It’s over now—for five hundred bucks less than I was hoping for, but it’s over.” He waves Nic over. “Let’s check you for injury.”

_I don’t feel any pain anywhere._

“Of course not, smartass.”

Nic moves closer nonetheless, and when Worick inspects him and finds a patch of his shirt matted to his skin with blood he looks confused, as if seeing it for the first time.

Worick sighs. “You need to wash it. Hell, you need to wash all of you.” He laughs and pushes sweaty bangs away from his face. “So do I.”

Nicolas shrugs and turns to head upstairs, but Worick puts out an arm to block him. “Ah, ah. Your first aid is still shitty. I’ll help.”

If there was a chance Nic wasn’t looking puzzled before, he sure as hell looks it now. But he’s not in a mood to oppose him, and gingerly steps aside to follow Worick upstairs.

“And try not to make a mess!” Worick calls, looking over his shoulder. “I can only sleep with the landlady so many times before she starts charging us for the extra cleaning.”

Nicolas sticks out his tongue.

*

Worick runs the hot water, sitting on the lip of the bathtub. Nicolas watches, trying not to fidget—there’s nowhere he’s comfortable sitting, and standing in one place too long coming off a job makes him restless. Before long, steam is curling upward from the tub, fogging up the mirror and thickening the air in the small bathroom.

Worick turns. “What are you waiting for? Get ready.”

Nicolas stares in what, for him, could pass as incredulity.

“Suddenly shy or something? C’mon, we’ve done this before.”

Nic blows a strand of particularly long hair from his damp forehead. _Twelve years ago. We were kids._

Worick laughs, trailing his fingers over the surface of the water: it’s a little hot, but it will cool, especially with the way Nicolas is trying to stall. “Has it really been that long? I guess I forgot.”

_You’re a terrible liar._

Worick knows.

*

_He’s told it’s a standard inspection for mercenaries, but this is the first time Wallace has ever seen anything remotely close to this. He feels a twinge of annoyance on Nic’s behalf as he’s bustled into the crowded bathroom—his captain is there, along with Wallace’s father._

_The boys’ eyes meet, and they exchange a mutual, unspoken understanding for one another._

_“Strip,” the captain says, “let the master inspect you.”_

_Wallace wants to say something, but his father’s shadow is close enough to touch his shoes, and his tongue turns to sand in his mouth._

_Nicolas, on his part, seems unfazed, and undresses with the same bored expression, until he’s down to his underwear and trying not to shiver._

_Under the harsh bathroom lights, Wallace can see every bruise, the fresh purple marks and the lingering, older green ones. Scars, too: it’s something he was expecting, but to see Nic so…exposed, with no apparent shame, almost makes Wallace uncomfortable. Dried blood and dirt cling to him like a second skin._

_The two men look him over, checking his eyes and mouth, turning him around like some show dog. Nic’s gaze meets Wallace’s again, indecipherable, before shifting to the wall behind him. His father’s voice is lowered, and once again Wallace is tempted to tell him whispering won’t make a difference to Nicolas._

_Wallace pretends not to see his father slip the captain a banknote and a pill bottle, and he pretends not to see the surprise flicker across Nic’s face as he stands with his arms crossed over his chest._

_His father speaks to him next. “Get him cleaned up and back to his bunk. Ten minutes.” He leans in close enough for Wallace to smell the alcohol on his breath. “Don’t make me come up and check. Ten. Minutes.”_

_“Sir,” Wallace murmurs._

_Wallace’s father looks past him to Nicolas before leaving with the captain, and he’s left alone with Nicolas and echoes of strange encounters plastered to the tile walls with steam._

*

Worick shuts off the water and pulls his hair back into a ponytail. He could use a good soak right about now, loosen up the knotted muscles in his back, but he can wait. Besides, if he were to bathe now, Nicolas would probably sit in his room in one of Worick’s favourite shirts, and get blood on that one too.

Nic is half-dressed, and with his shirt off Worick can see the gash near his shoulder, bright and loud against his skin. Hipbones peek out from the waistband of his pants, hanging low enough for Worick’s overactive imagination to make a smile tug at his lips. A part of him wonders why Nic is so reluctant to take off his clothes when it’s nothing new, but another part of him thinks maybe it’s so simple he’s just overlooking it. After all, Worick takes off clothes for a living.

Nicolas hits the sink with one hand impatiently. Worick looks up and mocks exasperation. “Fuckin’ princess. I need to get something to clean out your shoulder, so hurry up before it gets cold.”

He moves deliberately when leaving the bathroom: Nicolas watches him go, unmoving until the door shuts behind him.

Worick whistles a nonsensical tune to himself, counting out two minutes before entering again with a cloth and a bottle of alcohol. Nicolas is in the tub, his knees drawn to his chest and his eyes fixed on a spot behind the wall.

His eye hurts.

*

_In the end, Wallace has to wrestle him into the tub: Nicolas is like a cat, wriggling in the taller boy’s grip and clutching at the walls like he’s never touched a drop of water in his life. Wallace almost thinks it’s the case, half the time—when Nic looks more like he’s been tossed out of bed into his boots and too-big sword than prepped for tasks._

_It’s none of Wallace’s business, not really, but he tucks that thought away for later as he rolls up his sleeves and pulls up a stool._

_He doesn’t want to waste time, so he dunks water over Nicolas in lieu of a rinse and reaches for the soap. Nicolas tries to keep whatever façade’s being trained into him, but Wallace can feel his muscles tense under his careful hands, the rough “ **c-c-c-c-coOOold** ” of his neglected voice echoing off the walls and grating his ears. _

_“I know,” is all Wallace thinks to say as he scrubs layers of grime from Nic’s skin. His arms are scrawny, and Wallace can count his ribs. The circles under his eyes won’t wash out—not ever, probably. Nicolas looks up at him, almost apologetically, and Wallace’s face twists as he remembers what the doctor said about those like him._

_“I know.”_

_Wallace is surprised when Nicolas begins to relax, letting his shoulders drop. He moves to his hair: it’s not as coarse as it looks, and Wallace untangles it easily. Maybe he’ll ask his father if he can cut it. Below him, he hears Nicolas let out a sigh, but he can’t be sure if it’s intentional or if the boy isn’t aware of it. The corners of his mouth curl upward._

_It isn’t long before the bathwater is soiled with the blood on Nic’s hands and the dirt he’s obtained from working for Wallace’s father. He’s a lot calmer leaving the tub, gingerly stepping into the towel that Wallace offers him. It’s like caring for a little kid, instead of someone almost his age, and Wallace can’t help but ruffle his hair with the towel. It comes away spiky, and when he laughs he sees something new in Nic’s eyes that wasn’t there before. He can’t place it, but he tucks it away for later as well._

_He’s getting quite the collection of Nicolas thoughts for later._

_“Oh. Clean clothes.”_

_Nic pokes out a hand from the fluffy confines of the towel and gestures to his discarded garments on the floor._ Those are fine. More in my bunk.

_Wallace doesn’t argue, not on a time crunch like this. He turns to drain the tub, and Nicolas signs his thanks to his master’s back._

*

Muscle memory. That’s what Worick can blame it on, the way his hand dips the cloth in the warm water and runs it along Nic’s back without a second thought. It trickles over his muscles, over faded scars, and if Nicolas feels anything he doesn’t let on.

Worick leans back to get a better look at the injury, and Nicolas slides his gaze from the wall to him and back again. His hand lingers on Nic’s shoulder (muscle memory again) as he reaches for the alcohol. It’s strong shit, the kind Worick drinks after long nights and the kind Nicolas avoids like the plague. They meet in the middle as Worick unscrews the lid and pours some over the cut.

A sharp inhale on Nic’s behalf tells him the dosage must be wearing off. It’s shitty timing, and Worick feels a touch of sympathy, but Nicolas is the last person in the world to ask for sympathy, especially in an unforgiving city like this one. Instead, he takes a swig from the bottle and focuses on the wound, flushing it again with water. The cloth plops into the tub and makes Nicolas turn his head.

Worick grins and runs a hand through Nic’s hair: it stays up in his wake, out of the way of his eyes. They bore into Worick like he’s one of the books in the library, a lifetime ago.

Nicolas makes a show of fixing his hair. _Are you done yet?_

“You’re no fun,” Worick chides, flicking water at his face. “Get outta here before there’s no warm wa—”

A hand pulls at his collar and Worick has to grip the edges of the tub to stop himself from falling in. Nicolas has his other hand on him, though, at once bracing and curious.

Nic’s lips are close enough that Worick can taste them when he speaks against his mouth. “ **Thank you**.”

It’s softer than usual, almost rehearsed. It makes something in Worick's chest skip, and when he waves a hand dismissively he isn’t sure if it’s at Nic or himself. “Nice try, but good manners aren't gonna get you any kind of bonus points.”

(Not this time, anyway.)

As expected, Nic wastes no time getting out and back into his pants, the towel around his shoulders. _I need a coffee._

Worick gives him a wave before kicking off his clothes and slipping into the tub. The water is still warm, pleasant against his tired limbs.  He lets his head sink under, water flooding his ears and drowning the sounds of the outside world.

He wonders if this is what it’s like for Nic: living in suspended animation, waiting to be raised like a weapon and pulled back down again, with no warning shot to reach his ears.

When Worick comes up for air, there’s a cup of coffee on the edge of the sink. Nicolas is leaning in the doorway, another steaming mug between his hands. He’s dressed again, prompt as ever, a bandage over the injury peeking out with his tags from the undone buttons of his shirt.

“That’s mine,” Worick points accusingly, sitting up straighter to pull the plug.

Nicolas throws a towel at his face and takes a slow sip of coffee. _I already thanked you today_.

Worick dries off and wraps the towel around his waist, reaching greedily for the second mug. “Yeah, you did.”

His words are aimed at the drink, and Nicolas shrugs and turns to find a couch to lounge on downstairs.

“I didn’t, though,” Worick says to his mug, and raises his free hand to sign his own gratitude to a boy’s overgrown shadow.

The steps creak under Nic’s footfalls and the apartment settles with its newest secret; another skeleton for the closet; another page for the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all again so much for the kudos and kind comments!!  
> i really enjoy writing for these guys. i have a few more ideas already so you can expect more fic in the future from me!  
> does a backflip and throws a peace sign. stay cool


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